


your love will kill me

by GwiYeoWeo



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, and things spiral from there, ardyn contracts the infamous flower disease, ignoring the ardyn anime/dlc in here cause yeah, sorta??, with a LOT of hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 06:01:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17843795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwiYeoWeo/pseuds/GwiYeoWeo
Summary: "Take a breather, let the Oracle handle some of the load."‘Impossible,’Ardyn sarcastically thinks,‘with how suffocating this disease is, you may as well be strangling me with your very own hands instead.’He wasn't born a monster. The gods made him one.





	your love will kill me

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [your love will kill me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18153575) by [Kagutuchi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kagutuchi/pseuds/Kagutuchi)



> For the [kinkmeme fill here.](https://ffxv-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/5690.html?thread=11431994#cmt11431994)
> 
> This was supposed to be for Valentine's, as the bitter dark chocolate and heartbreak to accompany my other sweet and cute Noctobaby fic. But obviously I'm late lol. 
> 
> AND OF COURSE, i completely forget about the Episode Ardyn prologue, which came out just recently. So. I am 100% ignoring that right now, as I sort out my feelings.  
> /screams
> 
> no beta we die like regis

It starts with a simple cough, when he taps his chest with his fist, and he spews out a single blue petal. He stares at it, at the foreign thing in his palm, and he's not sure what to think. He initially thought he was coming down with a cold, or some fever from straining himself too much as he traveled among the masses and healed them of their afflictions. But no.

Ardyn Lucis Caelum is in love, in _unrequited_ love.

It's no secret the Fleuret is a bloodline favored by the gods. So much so, their successors were chosen as prophets of sorts — Oracles, they’re named — all well loved by both gods and mortals.

Lesser known is the Izunia name. While the Fleuret commune with the gods, the Izunia commune with the earth. They listen to the grass and wind, how they howl in pain or anger, sing in bliss and satisfaction. They feel the disease and rot within the trees and pastures, know the afflictions like they are their own. They whisper to the mountains and canyons, and trade secrets that no man would ever hear.

The Fleuret and Healer-King were tasked to aid the people, the Izunia to aid the lands. They were to walk parallel with each other, man and nature, but never intersect. It was too much power or too much responsibility for one bloodline, the gods had said, to care for both mankind and the earth.

So of course, Ardyn's love would never, _could never,_ be returned. Because his heart was set on Noctis Izunia, the one being he would never be able to claim.

And though he knows what waited ahead, if he kept to his love and let it bloom its thorny vines around his neck, he’s also a stubborn fool; determined to keep the love in his heart, for as long as he’s able to hide it, and suffer the consequences until it proved too much. It would be torture, both physical and emotional, but he refuses to let his feelings be hacked off as a hindrance. If the gods would choose his destiny as some Chosen King, then he would at least choose when to give up his heart.

So when Noctis hikes up his pants and rolls them above his knees to step into the small pond, when he cups a hand around his mouth to call Ardyn over to join him, he hides the petal within his worn cloak and puts on an easy smile. Here, hidden among the canopy of dense trees and setting sun, their voices drowned out by the rushing river and trill birdsong, it's easy to ignore the itch in his throat as he pulls off his boots to soak his feet into the cool waters.

“They said they welcome you here,” Noctis says, voice soft among the rustling leaves. “They'd like to see you more often.”

“Flattered. But I would think you'd make for better company than me, all things considered.”

Noctis bumps their knees together and gives him a pointed look, as if personally affronted. “You're still the Chosen, even if you can't… _talk_ to them, they still like your presence.”

“I only think you're trying to get rid of me. To get me lost in the woods, so I can't pester you anymore.” Ardyn’s chest constricts, and his lungs itch with budding vines and infant nettles, but he manages to keep his voice even.

“Oh, please. I'd drag you to a swamp in Duscae if I really wanted to, when it's night and all dense fog.”

“How terrifying,” Ardyn says dryly. “But now that I know there's no threat of murder and the likes, why did you bring me here? Was it only to appease your leafy friends?”

This time, Noctis looks — actually _looks_ , and Ardyn suffers a brief bout of panic, wondering if his short-lived ruse is up and if Noctis will discover his secret. “You looked tired, more than usual. I know you'll run yourself ragged if no one stops you, so I'm making you take a break. And you picked up a cough these past few days” — he raises a hand to silence Ardyn when he opens his mouth to protest — “and don't lie to me because I _just_ heard you cough a few minutes ago.”

Ardyn zips his mouth shut again, heeding the warning in the other’s eyes. And the voice in his head, telling him to keep quiet lest Noctis discovers the true reason behind his ailing health as of late. On cue, a sharp pain in his chest has him coughing, and he can’t hold it in this time. He turns his head away from Noctis and coughs into his fist, feels the soft petals push through his throat and onto his tongue. He swallows the flowers down, ignoring the bitter floral taste.

“See? You need to take care of yourself more.” Noctis reaches a hand over, and alternates between gentle pats and soothing circles on his back. “Take a breather, let the Oracle handle some of the load.”

 _‘Impossible,’_ Ardyn sarcastically thinks, _‘with how suffocating this disease is, you may as well be strangling me with your very own hands instead.’_

But instead of withdrawing from his touch, Ardyn obeys Noctis’ insistent tug and lays his head on the other’s shoulder. He’ll suffer through the heartache and its coiling vines, if he can enjoy these quiet moments together. Here, in the privacy of this secluded forest and its birdsongs and gentle breeze. Here, where he isn’t some prophesied King but only a man and a friend. (But not a lover. Never a lover.)

  
  


It never gets better.

Noctis doesn’t believe him, when he says he’s been resting when he can. It’s true, he tries to wind down and gather back his energy; but Ardyn knows no amount of rest can heal him of his heartache. Especially when he’s here, kneeling on the marble floor of his castle, spilling blue flowers and branching thorns that scrape and cut his throat and mouth. Blue and pink and green and a myriad of colors decorate the white tiles, as he coughs up blood and petals alike, as he desperately tries to clear his lungs of their roots and strangling vines so he could finally breathe. He can make a few out. Anemones, camellias, and roses, others are foreign to him. He's sure Noctis would know what they all are.

He sighs, limbs exhausted and lips bloody, and spits out the taste of flowers and copper from his tongue. He’ll have to clean this up before anyone comes and sees, but he knows the servants aren’t due in his room for another hour. So he scoots back until he hits the wall, and tosses his head back and catches his breath.

Ardyn contemplated it before, numerous times already, and the all-seeing gods even sent a Messenger to him the other night. A woman with sleek black hair and closed eyes hiding secrets forbidden to man. She warned him, that only weeds would bloom from his foolishness, that the gods would not idly stand by and watch their Chosen suffer without proper cause. Without proper cause, meaning without their _permission,_ he scoffed.

He could cure himself, at any time. He could go to the palace healers, or to some backyard shaman in a rundown village, but the results would be the same. The flowers and sharp bracts would stop, he would suffer from this ailing love no longer. He’d finally be able to breathe without his throat constricting or his lungs collapsing, be healthy and hearty once again. But, the cure is to kill off his love, to remove his affections entirely and dissect that precious section out of his heart. And while Ardyn is willing to devote his body to the gods and the people, he’s determined to keep his heart for himself, to do with it as he wished.

He told the Messenger just that. He didn't understand the sympathetic look she gave him, but he didn't need her condolences. He went so far as to ignore her warnings, that the gods would take matters into their own hands should Ardyn not take heed. Well, they'd just have to strap him down and pull the flowers right out of his chest themselves then.

Until then, he'll keep what rightfully belongs to him. So he gathers up the bloodied flowers and wraps them in a knapsack, cleans the marble until they’re gleaming white, and goes to bury his secrets in the gardens.

He just finishes patting the dirt over when Noctis almost startles him, when he quietly steps through the fields and places a hand on his shoulder. “Planting something?” he asks.

Ardyn lets out a slow breath, relieved to know he was not caught red-handed. He makes sure to steady his voice. “You could say that. Though I’m not sure if there’ll be anything to reap.”

“So you’re gardening instead of healing now? If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to steal my job right from under me.”

“Hardly. We both know I lack the green thumb, dear Noctis.”

Noctis breathes a laugh, and Ardyn can hear the smile in it. He dusts the dirt off his hands and straightens up, turning to see Noctis. The man is dressed for travel, wearing his favorite black cloak that covers his entire body. But Ardyn knows from experience what hides beneath. A sword at his hip and a dagger strapped to his leg, a respectable warrior in his own right despite his role as a healer of the lands. Ardyn raises a brow, passing that silent question between them.

“I’m being sent off to the outskirts of Cleigne. The gods said there’s a nasty bout of Scourge there, corrupting the soil and forests. Nothing’s growing there, at least nothing _normal,_ ” Noctis answers.

“When will you be back? Cleigne is quite a ways.”

Noctis shrugs. “No idea, but I promise I’ll be back soon. Or try to. Can't let Somnus drive you too crazy.” There's something else he wants to say, and Ardyn sees the hesitation in his face as a pregnant pause settles over them. But when Noctis opens his mouth to say it, he promptly closes it and shakes his head. “And there's something I want to ask you, when I get back. So promise me you won't work yourself to death?”

Ardyn isn't sure if he likes the sound of that or the look in his eyes, how forlorn and conflicted they look. But Noctis manages to hide away that expression before Ardyn can linger on it, so instead of asking, he replies, “I'll try, but only if you promise to come back safe and sound as well. Deal?”

“Deal.” Noctis’ smile reaches up to his eyes — it's enough for Ardyn to question the gloom that was there only seconds ago — and he shortens the space between them in a quick hug and a light smack on the back. “I'll see you later, Ardyn.”

Noctis is quick to leave, joining his three wardens waiting by the entrance. The largest of them slings an arm around Noctis’ shoulders and whispers something in his ear, which has the young healer pushing the other away from him with a light laugh.

Ardyn feels another cough cut at his edges, and he turns away before the sight buries the thorns even further into his heart. This time, the petals are black and grey, but the blood dyes them a brilliant crimson as always.

  
  


Noctis should have never made that promise.

He was told there would be no daemons. The _gods_ told him there would be no daemons. Yet here he is, running through the blackened fields and rotting trees, trying to ignore the pained cries of nature around him as they beg for his mercy and grace. It's hard enough to push past the sight of his friends’ torn bodies, limbs and bones where they should not be, and he knows if he lets himself linger on it for even a fraction, his life will be forfeit.

Through the burn of his tears and the fire in his legs, he only makes it through the break of the dense forest because of the knowledge that if he stops and stumbles now, their sacrifices will be for naught. He ducks his head when he hears the whistle of an iron giant's sword pass over him, barely missing him by the sliver of a hair, and he leaps over a fallen trunk and a Scourged voretooth that snaps at his legs. He parries and slices at the imps that come at him like hordes, and _Six,_ it's like he's stumbled into a hatchery of daemons.

When he reaches the end, he skids to a halt, and he feels his heart in his throat. He's at a dead end, a cliffside that promises sharp rocks and splintered wood in her dark chasms. And at the other end, seconds away from clawing and devouring him like they did his dearest companions, the daemons.

Noctis wants to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Tricked into his own demise because he was fulfilling his duties. Tricked by the very gods he serves, he realizes. He's only sorry that the Oracle and Ardyn will continue to abide by their wills. And also, that he'll be breaking the promise he made to Ardyn.

“Sorry, but it looks like I'll be seeing you on the other side.”

But he'll not become another Scourge victim for the Caelums to slay or another tally on Ardyn's list of sorrows. With one last breath, he tosses his sword over the cliff and follows.

  
  


One week turns into two, two into three into four. Then a month into four, five, six.

Ardyn gives up hope on the seventh month. Not because he's grown weary of the wait — he would wait for centuries, if possible — or because his heart is so torn from the grief. He would believe in their promise, keep it locked within his soul for eternity, have it etched into his skin as a testament, if there ever was a chance, no matter how slim it would be. He'd suffer and bleed on the spines and needles that bury themselves into the walls of his throat and the soft tissue of his lungs, for as long as it took until Noctis came home.

But there is no chance. No miracle. Not when the Messenger gathers the three houses together — Caelum, Fleuret, and Izunia — and tells them the young healer is no longer.

That Noctis is dead and gone. Died in a daemon attack, she says.

And that's all Ardyn needs to hear. He leaves the Oracle's chapel and blindly makes his way out of its concrete walls. He doesn't think, _can't_ think, of where he's going, the only coherent thoughts in his head that Noctis is dead, dead, _dead._ He barely registers the townspeople that greet him, some of them awkwardly shuffling away when they see his expression. He only comes to when he breathes in the scent of water, of the small pond Noctis often dragged him to, here in that secluded area of the forest he was so fond of.

Here, he falls to his knees and cries out his funeral flowers. Marigolds, zinnias, roses, and lilies; blue, black, grey, and always red.

He never got to say ‘I love you,’ the words washed down the river along with the flowers.

  
  


He learns that Noctis’ death had put house Izunia into disarray, that the Messenger's words did not fare anything better. Of the household, Noctis had been the last to inherit the Izunia's abilities, the gift to commune with Eos and her nature. He was expected to bear an heir, in hopes that the gift would pass on, that their duties would carry over. But the Messenger announced that with Noctis’ passing, the Izunia would no longer have to bear the burden of their responsibilities, for the gods have henceforth freed them from their binds.

Ardyn knows they're still in chaos, trying to figure out where they belong now or what their purpose is, if their name holds any power now that they no longer serve the gods. But he doesn't care for the details. He doesn't spare himself the time to.

Now that Noctis is gone, he has no reason to keep to their promise. He throws himself to the ailing and the afflicted, runs himself thin and ragged as he heals the Scourge from their bodies. He travels, far from his home, to the dust of Leide and the swamps of Duscae and the mountains of Cleigne. He pushes until he's exhausted, until all he can do is drag himself across the glowing stone of a haven and stare listlessly at the night sky. And he watches the stars, looks for the constellations that Noctis tried to teach him, and waits for the sweet pain to wrap itself around his throat.

He doesn't fight it, not anymore. He lets the blooms spill forth from his tongue, staining his lips red and with pollen, and savors the burn in his lungs. He sees the blooms and the leaves, and they drip with a black ichor. Corruption taints their colors and burns at them, like pests eating away at their edges. It's the only gift he has from Noctis now, and even though the daemons have already taken his love from him, the Scourge is greedy for more. He continues to cough up decayed flowers and rotting roots, no longer holding any color or hint to what species they are but all coated with a black bile, and he wonders how the gods could abandon Noctis, abandon them both.

He returns home, and Ardyn gets his answer at the Crystal. When his soul is all but gone and he feels the darkness rip at his edges, he falls to his knees before the gods and screams at them. He nearly begs for their grace, demands for the answers he's been festering for all these months.

It is Bahamut who speaks to him this time, no divine Messenger or mediator, a thundering voice that rumbles from the Crystal.

“The light has been corrupted by the Scourge, and no longer are you worthy as King. You did not heed the warnings, and now yet another healer is lost to us.” His voice is cold as steel, and his words are sharp as an executioner's axe.

 _“Warnings._ What warnings!?” Ardyn roars, black viscose streaming down his eyes and tainting his skin. Behind him, he hears Somnus curse, and he knows the ruse is up, that they all know he's afflicted. “I did as you asked. I healed the fallen and did my duties, and here I am being punished for it!”

“You were warned. That your love would only lead to suffering. Yet through your hubris, you turned deaf to our words. We would not have our Chosen lost to some folly, so we would remove your affections ourselves. But it seems that was not enough.”

And yet here he still is, coughing up dark and rotting flowers, so obviously Bahamut failed somewhere. And not like any of them actually came to personally strip him of his one-sided love for a deceased man. But where was this coming from? What did it have to do with the Scourge in his veins and —

“You killed him.” His whispers sound like thunder in his ears, and realization strikes him like a sword to his heart. They orchestrated it. They orchestrated Noctis’ death, in hopes that would kill off his affections. “You lied to him. He was to only heal the lands, not fight daemons.”

“You killed him.” Ardyn says again, refusing to believe his own words. Refusing to believe that Noctis died just because he loved him, because the gods didn't want him to. All reason leaves him then, and he doesn't care for why the gods have allowed the Scourge to overtake him.

He shatters, in fractals of red and black, and he lunges for the Crystal, to break it like it broke him. To kill Bahamut like he killed Noctis, with the Scourge buried deep in his veins.

  
  


He awakes in Angelgard. It is not the first, and it is not the last. He doesn’t count how many times he’s died and resurrected, doesn’t try to recall _how_ he dies. It could be from the sheer pain, of having iron hooks and steel chains dug deep into his flesh and through his bones, tearing tendons and ligaments and piercing through his joints. It could be the blood loss, mixed with black Scourge that flows freely from his wounds and pools beneath his feet, seeping into the cracks of the stone and corroding all it touches. It could be from his disease, born from a love long lost, that strangles him with its fearsome vines and pierces through the skin of his throat with its killing thorns.

He once tried to count the days, by using the freeflowing flowers he vomits up, tried to use the rotted petals as markers. But they soon dissolve, turn into bile and viscose by the Scourge that eats away at him, eats away at the blooms and briars. And eventually, the Scourge wins. It takes what’s left of his heart and twists it into its image, ruins his love and tramples its blooms into something vile and depraved, a perverse and mocking replica of what it once was.

Ardyn no longer bears flowers. He spits out dark ichor turned acidic, roots turned barbed wire and flowers into putrid seeds that sprout out darkness and Scourge. Fungus and mold fall from his lips, spread themselves across the cracks with their tendrils as they set forth with hunger and decay. The pain doesn’t stop; it feels like acid burning down his throat and fire in lungs, but pain is all he ever feels now — a constant companion ever at his side. Pain. And love. He’ll hold onto it if it’s the last thing he’ll do, however which way the Scourge wants to bastardize it, no matter how much the gods wanted to take that away from him. He’ll do it scorn them, when he can no longer remember Noctis’ face or voice or his comforts and laughs.

  
  


He takes on Noctis’ name. Calls himself Ardyn Izunia. He has no use for the Caelum name when he’s no longer fit to bear it, when he only finds bitterness and disdain at the mere mention of it. He bides his time, plots his revenge with some half-mad king and a crooked scientist. He doesn’t care for Niflheim’s goals or their thirst for power. It’ll all be lost in the end, to him and the Scourge, and if they want to pretty themselves up with a ribbon and a note card, so be it. He’ll enjoy unwrapping their present as a side dessert for later. But for now, he has his eyes set on the main course, on Lucis and her kingdom of lies and her crown of fool’s gold.

  
  


And the Scourge inside him _screams._ All his resolve nearly crumbles, his fury and thirst for vengeance almost quelled, his thousands of years spent in silent plotting and promised retribution tossed to the wayside, when he steps within those gilded halls so reminiscent of his old palace, because he's curious of how the old Caelums are faring nowadays and sneaks in unnoticed. It is not the sudden nostalgia or the homesickness that suddenly fills his splintered soul, not the familiar marble floors he once stained with heartfelt blooms and spilled blood.

It is the soft raven hair and a color so blue it’s nearly black. He catches sight of their new Chosen, and he wants to cry from hysterics — it’s a big ‘fuck you’ if he’s ever seen one, and he almost commends the gods.

Noctis. Noctis _Lucis Caelum._

Funny, how they took on each other’s surnames, and there was no marriage to even show for it. Funny, that Ardyn was willing to choke on the vines of love, to die from the blooms that suffocated his lungs. Funny, that the gods had once tried to stop it, but have now brought back Noctis to kill Ardyn off anyway.

And it’s ironic still, that the decay the Scourge had twisted inside of him, sprouts delicate little forget-me-nots that night, the only living blooms he’s coughed up in ages. Only to disintegrate within the corrosion of the Scourge, when all that flows forth again is black bile and rotting weeds.

But Ardyn loves him still, even if Noctis hates him. He _knows_ this isn’t the proper way to love someone. That plotting his father’s murder and the fall of his kingdom is far from romantic, but that sane part of him had died so long ago, leaving little else besides sins and disease incarnate. He’s conflicted between his thirst for vengeance and the ruination of the Caelums, and what remains of his heart that neither the gods nor the Scourge were able to take away from him. He hates the idea of _anyone_ hurting Noctis; but if the dear one must be hurt, then Ardyn will let no one else but himself hurt the prince.

And for as long as he still walks, no one else will have Noctis either. Lunafreya is an eyesore, a pest on the back of his neck. Ardyn could have had Noctis long ago, when Niflheim sent the Marilith to kill the young princeling. Verstael couldn’t quite understand Ardyn’s rage when he learned of the daemon attack, and he didn’t expect anyone to comprehend this fractured love he still held for Noctis. But of course, through some divine intervention, Noctis survived. Though not without the Scourge that tainted his blood and flesh, and Ardyn figured he might as well make the best of it. Perhaps, _perhaps_ he could have twisted it into his favor, corrupt Noctis as it had corrupted Ardyn and throw the mockery in the gods’ face. If the Astrals wanted to screw with his heart and have his deceased love return to kill him, then Ardyn would do the same and fuck with _them_ by turning their new Chosen against them.

And yet, his idea was thrown into shambles when Lunafreya and the Oracle Queen healed what remained of the taint. When the treaty terms were drafted, Ardyn only turned a blind eye to their supposed marriage because he knew it would never be — he would make damn sure.

And Noctis couldn’t marry a corpse, now could he? Ardyn tosses the dagger into the ocean and relishes the woman’s wide-eyed stare as she bleeds out, a crimson bloom on her lovely white dress. It looks like one of the bouquets he used to cough up all those centuries ago. He doesn’t mean to sound as mocking as he does, when he calls out to Noctis to meet his dying bride, but he finds it hard to not find bliss in having all his plans unfold.

Ardyn never expected to have his love returned. Not then, and certainly not now. So when he hears that anguished cry and sees those eyes burning with grief and fury, he only smiles and bows out, flourishing his hat in one hand in a sweeping gesture. It's better to be hated and scorned, than to be thrown into obscurity and forgotten by all of history. And if the only way to have Noctis look at him with such passion is to paint himself as the grand villain, then so be it. As long as he can claim that corner of his heart, he'll skip along to the tune and turn their dance into a waltz, a foxtrot, a tango, or whatever it needs to be. He'll even play with that little blonde friend that looks so much like the Niflheim scientist; he _does_ seem a bit too cozy around Noctis in Ardyn's opinion.

Because Ardyn finds no greater comfort than knowing he'll die at Noctis’ hands. Once, he sarcastically thought Noctis should have just wrapped his fingers around his neck and suffocate Ardyn himself, lest the flowers choke the life out of him first. Now, he's elated to know he'll have it granted, that Noctis will be the last darling sight he'll see. And if they truly get to die together, that's quite romantic, he'd say; even if it’s a shame that through everything Noctis has suffered through, he'll die once more due to the gods’ plotting.

  
  


It's hard to keep up the ruse, to pretend his murderous rage is aimed at Noctis. But his efforts are rewarded, when that sword is plunged into his chest and his wounds _blossom_ with black and blue, instead of spraying out blood and ichor. Noctis looks startled, confused, but his eyes hold sympathy and kindness all the same, even after all the horrors this monster has done. And Ardyn knows it's no wonder why he fell in love with this man in the first place.

He reaches a hand to his chest, rips out a handful of the flowers that tangle their roots into his flesh and bones, grunting only slightly at the tearing pain, and weakly presses them against Noctis’ hands. “For you” — through the blood and blooms that dam up his throat — “Always, for you.”

He thinks he sees something flash across Noctis’ eyes, but his world goes dark and he fades into the Beyond before he can think anything of it. Yet in the last fractions he has left in this plane, he hears a strangled cry of his name. And oh, how it rends at his heart so sweetly.

  


 

Noctis wakes up, a silent scream trapped in his throat and a sword pinning him to the throne. He feels tears sting at his face, and tastes flowers and bitter memories on his tongue.

He never got to hear Ardyn say ‘I love you.’

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhh.  
> thanks for suffering with me


End file.
